


Quirky

by thinkatory



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/F, Short, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luna Lovegood. Quirky, and proud of it. So to speak. Unrequited femmeslash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quirky

**Quirky**

Loony Luna, Ravenclaw oddity and freakshow.

She doesn’t mind the title, really, at least not outwardly. She doesn’t like that they hid her clothes and played keep-away with her books, and mocked her father’s newspaper, but they don't know any better. Not to mention that hasn't been too common since Harry's article. No one has the nerve to say anything against the Quibbler now, mainly because it's been verified as having been a viable news source at least once.

Quirky, and proud of it. So to speak.

Watch her now; she’s trying to transfigure sticks into daises so she can plait them into her hair. Daises are worn on Midsummer’s for luck and blessing, or so she’s read, and though it’s midwinter, not midsummer, she considers any token of luck worthy of a try. She hasn’t much else to do, since Ginny is off with some boy or another.

Sometimes she wishes Ginny had left her alone.

Because now there’s an ache. The presence of Ginny warms a spot in her being, and with her absence she feels cold and slightly awkward, which is not a feeling that she is used to feeling. Luna is all grace, all balletic steps and never lost for words.

With luck, perhaps dear Ginevra will happen by.

Wishes, too, she recalls as she successfully transfigures one, then another. Wishes and divination and calling spirits. She looks at the humble daisy with awe. Such a simple, clean bloom achieves so much.

“Wish I may, wish I might,” she murmurs, sing-song, an ironic little smile crossing her face. She seizes the flowers and makes quick work of it with nimble fingers, one front plait, two, drawing them back so she’s crowned with the flowers she so very envies and sympathizes with—pale petals, simple and humble beginnings, unknown depths...

And, she thinks as she looks out the window at the end of the corridor, hope for a new life in spring.


End file.
